


Messy as a Magister's Wet Dream

by adoxyinherear



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adoxyinherear/pseuds/adoxyinherear
Summary: I do so love a rowdy Hawke.--Responses to prompts from the Friday Night Dragon Age Drunk Writing Circle. Updates sporadic.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke
Kudos: 13





	1. Wary

It was a testament to her interest in him that Hawke was willing to exchange a night of drinking at the Hanged Man for a shared bottle of wine in Fenris’ dimly lit parlor. The elf couldn’t even be counted upon to tell outrageous and flattering lies about her. Varric had cornered that market.

But here she was.

“You were saying something about your first love,” Hawke prodded, reaching across the table to refill her glass. Fenris might’ve drank right from the bottle, but Hawke was a _lady_. “I hope she had nice arms.”

“He did,” Fenris admitted after a moment, earning a smirk from Hawke. “And I was finished.”

“Talking? Already?”

“What about you?” Fenris leaned forward, his low growl of interest drawing her closer, too. Not so long ago he would’ve shut her out completely after talking about his past – that he turned the tables on her, instead, was a welcome change. “Lothering was a small place. I can’t imagine you would’ve gone unnoticed for long.”

Hawke grinned. There was an explicit undertone in his voice that she wouldn’t have _let_ herself go unnoticed.

“I fell in love with my best friend,” Hawke replied, elbows against the table, glass between both hands. “I was fourteen. He was the innkeeper’s son and used to nip drinks for us when his mother wasn’t paying attention.”

“Is that all he did for you?”

Fenris’ eyes caught the light of the table’s lone candle, wary but hungry, too. Hawke licked her lips.

“Are you interested in a story or a demonstration, Fenris? Because Varric’s more the tale-telling type.”

She knew she was pushing him, pressing for something he’d already demonstrated he couldn’t want, couldn’t let himself want.

But what about what _she_ wanted?

Fenris was reaching for the bottle, shifting on his chair to withdraw from her. She’d tried to explain to him once that her reflexes were mostly just watching others, moving to where her enemies weren’t yet. Hawke didn’t wait for reactions. She orchestrated them.

Hawke closed her hand around his wrist before he could take up the wine. He met her eyes and she saw the struggle there, that he might pull away, that he almost certainly would pull away. Her heart sank. She’d miscalculated. It never happened in Varric’s stories but it happened too often with Fenris.

Only maybe not, this time.

Fenris’ fingers, slim, ungloved, beautiful, and _oh-so-skillful_ , closed around Hawke’s forearm and pulled her forward. Their lips crashed together, a gravity of teeth and tongues. She clambered on top of the table without breaking contact, hands snaking up his arms and anchoring against his shoulders when she slid into his lap. Her full glass tipped, a musical clatter joining with the moan that escaped him as Hawke pressed herself down where he already stirred for her.

 _This time_ , she’d have his breeches off before her spilled wine finished pooling over the table’s edge.


	2. Useful Qualities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trouble was that Fenris would never stop trying to protect her and one day it was going to kill him. 

Hawke’s boots were wet. And her leathers. And her tunic, her mail, her hair. Even her eyelashes seemed to be dripping.

It was not ideal.

There was a fire blazing in her room already, fortunately; the only bit of fortune she’d had all night. Because it wasn’t just rainwater pooling on the carpet but blood, too, from a knife wound in her thigh and a nasty swipe from a dagger that had bisected her cheek. It would make for an impressive scar - not that she needed more. 

Stumbling out of her sodden clothes, Hawke breathed through the pain, imagining that it was one too many drinks with Varric that made her clumsy and not blood loss. She had an assortment of bandages and salves in the trunk beside her bed and was halfway through cleaning the wound on her leg when Fenris stormed into her chamber.

“I will personally gut the next Sharps Highwayman who so much as breathes in Darktown,” he said, propelling himself from one end of the room to the other without looking at her.

“And hello to you, too, Fenris,” Hawke replied, hissing at the end of his name when she secured the bandage. Her cheek was next. The cut was shallow, but messy as a magister’s wet dream. 

Fenris slowed and knelt down beside her, watching as she worked. He lost patience with her clumsy attempts without a mirror, taking the cloth from her and cleaning her cheek himself.

“You deserve so much better,” he murmured, and Hawke knew he didn’t just mean tonight’s ambush. Fenris couldn’t stop every blade or crossbow bolt; they were an occupational hazard and frankly, Hawke’s personality had something to do with it, too. She could’ve been a tailor or a fishmonger or a banker and people would probably still want to stab her. 

The trouble was that Fenris would never stop trying to protect her and one day it was going to kill him. 

“It’s not your job to _die_ for me, Fenris,” she said with a sigh. “You’ve got so many more useful qualities.”

But he wasn’t listening. Fenris never listened to things he didn’t want to hear. It was one of his few boyish tendencies that Hawke occasionally took advantage of.

The other was that her body never failed her when words did. 

She waited until he’d applied a congealant and light plaster before taking his hands and pulling him close. After a moment spent silently nosing his neck, the base of his scalp, her fingers plucked at the laces of his breeches. Fenris groaned, but he must’ve been tired: he didn’t resist nearly as much as he usually would have after a battle. He always told her she needed rest at least a few times before her relentless pursuit of what she _wanted_ rather than what she needed won out. 

“You’re not wearing much,” he observed with a growl.

“Everything was wet,” Hawke replied with a smirk. “And I knew you’d turn up uninvited. I’m too lazy to undress twice.”

Fenris’ eyes flashed bright as knives in the firelight.

“I could go.”

“I’d rather you came.”

Hawke seized his mouth with lips, her yelp of pain when Fenris lifted her into the bed smothered by his eager tongue. He held himself above her, hips just grazing against hers, but Hawke wasn’t patient. She wanted his weight, the press of his body, the sweat and the heat and all her raw edges smoothed. Fenris always worried about what was going to happen to her in the streets or the wilds, awaiting the next time her too-smart mouth got her into trouble. What he didn’t realize was that she never worried, not out there.

It was only when she was alone with him that Hawke felt vulnerable. 


End file.
